The Singer, The Watcher
by tidalutopia
Summary: "Welcome to the Hughes! We are your act of the night. My name is Elsie, and these lovely ladies are the Maids! Raise your glasses and prick up your ears! One, two, one two three four!" - Modern AU where Elsie, owner of the pub Hughes, plays every friday night with her band... and meets a man who sweeps her from her feet.


**After reading kouw's Downton Radio, it inspired me and made me sure I needed to write this story. I've always seen this possibility in my head, and I've always wanted to write it. So here, there you have it. A modern AU where Elsie not only has a pub but is also a singer in her own band and Charles ends up there by recommendation of his friends. It will have all sort of things. So, as always, thank you for your support and kouw for having inspired me to write this…**

…

"This next song is about something most of us aspire to find… or have already found."

The Hughes was full on that rainy night in the middle of some street in London. Elsie's pride and joy, built over years and years of hard work on other pubs around town, a dream made truth. Elsie Hughes was the owner, the barwoman, and on the rainy Friday nights on autumn she was also the main attraction – or rather, her band. Elsie &amp; the Maids. Only her on the vocals and guitar, Beryl Patmore on the percussion, Isobel Crawley on the keyboards. Long time friends, they all met when they were young and in love with music so much they started a band just for fun. Eventually Isobel married and finished her studies, Beryl went to France to focus on her cooking and Elsie pursued her dream of having a business of her own. But eventually her friends' lives stabilized, and they could get back to having fun around the little stage of the Hughes.

But that night, it was only Elsie and her prized guitar, a few pedals and a full audience to listen to her soothing voice, her beautiful lyrics, and her strong yet incredible skills as a musician. Never recorded an album or anything really, just papers and papers of poems and chords scattered all around her room. She stepped on one pedal, giving her guitar a more atmospheric tone, and cleared her throat. She smiled against the microphone, and sang.

"No more poetry can teach me / no more films can show me / how it is that you always seem to / sweep me off my feet…"

A minor C sharp, followed by an A major, followed by an E. Her guitar was one with her voice, and her eyes were closed, her voice soft as waves crashing on the warm sand.

"You took it from my mouth / soft whispers against your hands / as love filled our lungs…"

The crescendo on her voice echoed as her strums became fiercer, the audience listening carefully to the tune. A man at the counter watched even more carefully. She stepped on another pedal, now the sound was heavier. The watcher gently nodded with the pace of the song.

"And you can't give me / anything more than this / and you can't give me / more than kisses / more than kisses / more than kisses…"

So it went for a little while, this song of hers. As she finished, the audience stood up, clapped, whistled, begged for more. But she couldn't. Surely they were thirsty, and poor Anna was working alone in the midst of the crowd. The watcher ordered another pint. Lightened a cigarette. And smiled to himself.

"Thank you, everyone. Next time it'll be better, I promise. With the girls and everything!" She bowed, laughing as they clapped. She stepped down the stage, and made her way to the counter, rolling up her sleeves ready to work. The watcher stood there, watching her legs moving gracefully, her hair hiding her profile in the dim light. She looked at him, and smiled back, as if mechanically. She was used to men looking at her. But she didn't care much about it when there was work to do.

"Good evening. May I help?" She asked, picking up empty cups, looking at him with a small smile on her lips.

The watcher took a sip of his pint, a drag of his poison. "You've done more than enough. When I heard there was a local band that only played in this place, I didn't think it would be this good… even if solo."

She chuckled, taking a pint for another girl sitting there, as Anna passed right behind her. "You're too kind, sir. I'm afraid the girls had their own affairs to attend. Is this your first time around here? I don't think I've met you before…"

She was a professional at small talk and keeping her hands busy with work. The man who spoke to her was charming and was clearly observing her too frequently. He wasn't good at hiding it.

"No, I'm afraid I've never came here. Although I've been told the graces of the Hughes."

"Oh, is that right?" She looked at him again, taking a pint for herself this time. Her throat was sore, and since the night was ending, she could have a simple pleasure.

"Oh yes." He held out his hand for her to shake. A strong hand but a gentle touch. "Charles Carson."

She shook the man's hand. "Elsie Hughes."

"I know."

She smiled, amused with the notion of her popularity around those streets. Well, people did know her. She had worked here and there, met all sorts of people, served most of them, and sang for some. She even had some admirers that would be on her pub most of the nights, hoping that Elsie would give them some attention other than asking for what they wanted to drink that night. She usually found herself to be a lone wolf, due to problems with other male partners in the past. Not many men amused her to the point she'd show more interest rather than the politeness she showed to everyone. Not certainly this Charles Carson, but something of his was… well, interesting. Maybe his voice? His hands? The way he talked to her? She couldn't find an answer.

They lost themselves in their own thoughts for a little longer. The house was full, after all, and it was only two people working behind the counter. Poor Anna worked so hard, Elsie ought to give her a raise – good girl, polite, smart. Working to pay for her studies, something that Isobel did back in the day, something she wouldn't refuse to a sweet girl like Anna. Slowly, the house emptied itself, but Charles stood in his chair, drinking, smoking. Not drunk, not even near it – he knew his alcohol, Elsie thought. They didn't share more words other than the necessary ones. Soon Anna would leave, and as she cleaned the tables and tidied the chairs, he wouldn't seem to leave.

"I'm afraid I'll have to close soon, sir." She spoke softly, putting the chairs upside down on the top of the table in front of her. "Don't you have a wife to return to? She might wonder things…"

He chuckled, turning to her, his arms closed. "She doesn't usually wonder, no. Mostly because she doesn't exist."

She looked around as he spoke, finding that the rest of cleaning was little and that she could do it in the morning. "Really?" She turned to him.

"Really. No ring on your finger as well." His grin was small but noticeable.

"So you've been paying attention." She approached him, sitting on the chair next to him. "I don't usually wear it to work, let alone to play."

"Do you sing for him too?"

"Who said anything about a he?" She chuckled.

"…She?"

The laughter from both of them got louder.

"No. I wish, but no. I'm not one for relationships." Elsie crossed her arms. "My baby is this little place. It takes all my time. And I, gladly, accept said burden."

"It's a good place alright… With a beautiful owner." He winked at her, finishing the rest of beer that laid on his glass, making her only smirk as she waited for him to be done with it.

"Single, just met me, and flirting already?" She asked him, her eyes piercing him, as she raised her chin. She was indeed amusing himself with this man.

"One can take any chance he's given, can one not? All is fair in love and war, someone said." He replied to her.

In his head, she played with him. He understood she was only being polite, sociable. She was a good woman from what he had seem. There was a certain beauty about that light brown hair, about that green eyes, those thin pink lips. He imagined how sensual she must have looked in the past if she's this enticing now. The black, small heeled boots; the slightly tight jeans around her legs; the comfortable black wool jumper. She didn't look like any women he'd meet in his work. She looked like a femme fatale, and sounded like an angel when she sang.

"Well, for your… relatively successful try, another round on the house. And then I'm afraid we'll have to call it a night." She stood up and walked around the counter, his eyes never leaving her silhouette.

They talked more. Laughed more. Drank a little more – and the clock ticked, and ticked, and ticked. Eventually they had to leave. Charles would have to work in that morning and he needed to rest a little, and so did Elsie. Closing the door behind her, facing the cold end of the night, Elsie and Charles stood in front of each other.

"Promise me you'll come back?" She teased him. "You know the place now. And there's more beer from where those ones came from."

"Don't worry. I'll come back. Only if you sing to me." He teased her back.

"Why must every men beg me for my voice? It's so tiring sometimes!"

And they've said their goodbyes, and parted on their own separate ways. Her grace, voice and humour did not leave his mind. His words, jokes and smell followed her to her car, and to her bed, where she laid thinking why would she lower her guard so easily for that charming man, with gentle eyes, and strong hands?

She got up, she couldn't sleep. She picked her guitar. She played some chords. She wrote another song.


End file.
